Oliver looked down at the wreckage. The smell of gasoline was getting stronger.
“Got a match?” he said.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Luther handed him a glossy black matchbook with the words Paradise Club printed in gold on the front.
Oliver struck a match and touched it to one of the pages in the notebook. When he was sure the fire had taken hold, he tossed the burning notebook down onto the wreckage.
The modified Cord exploded into flames.
“Nothing better than fire to clean up a scene,” Luther said.
Chapter 57
The four of them were gathered in the living room of Casa del Mar. Oliver was in his big chair. Luther was pouring himself a whiskey. Chester was mourning the loss of his magnificent creation.
Irene paced the room, restless and unnerved, still shaky with relief. After four long months it was difficult to believe that the personal nightmare that had chased her to California was finished.
“I called the police station,” Oliver said. He stretched out his bad leg. “I explained that someone broke into my place, cracked the safe, and stole my car while I was busy with the emergency drill. When they find the wreckage and recover the body, I’ll identify Enright as a guest here at the hotel. I’ll suggest that he must have gotten drunk and decided to pull a stunt.”
“It will be interesting to see who shows up to claim the body,” Irene said.
“Yes,” Oliver said. “Most wealthy families would commission a funeral director to take possession of the body and accompany it back east.”
“A distraught, grieving parent might feel compelled to make the trip out west himself,” Irene said. “Especially if he’s hoping to find a certain notebook.”
“If someone from the Enright family does show up, we’ll make sure that he or she is given the charred remains of the notebook. The pages will have been destroyed but some remnants of the cover will probably survive. Leather doesn’t burn easily.”
Irene looked at him. “Do you think it might be recognized as a fake?”
It was Chester who responded. “Nah. I did a damned good job with those calculations, if I do say so myself. It would take an expert to figure out that they’re gibberish, and he’d need most of the notebook to verify that—not just the burnt leather cover and some charred pages.”
Oliver sank deeper into the reading chair and rotated a glass of whiskey slowly between his palms. “The illusion is good. It will fool the audience if necessary.”
Chester peered at him. “You’ve still got the real notebook. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m working on that,” Oliver said. “One more thing. Willie and the others know that they helped capture a suspected hotel thief. They’re aware that the thief took off in my car. In the morning when the police find the accident site, everyone will know the burglar drove the Cord off a cliff. Everyone will assume he lost control.”
Chester shrugged. “That was exactly what happened.”
Luther lounged against the wall, whiskey glass in hand. “Obviously. Everyone knows that car was unique. That’s why you never let anyone else drive it. Too dangerous.”
“Just another drunk-driving accident,” Chester said.
“One that took care of a professional killer,” Oliver said.
“We had to be sure,” Luther added. “We couldn’t let him escape. He would have come back.”
Irene looked at the others. They had taken a terrible risk and now they were forever bound by a dark secret. The fact that Oliver and Chester had made some last-minute modifications to the brakes and steering on the fastest car in California would never go beyond the four of them.
“More whiskey, anyone?” Luther asked.
Chapter 58
He felt her leave the bed.
He opened his eyes and watched her pull on a robe and pad quietly out the door. She vanished into the shadowed hallway.
He shoved aside the covers, got up, shrugged into a robe, and followed her.
She was in the living room, gazing out over the garden and the pool to the ocean beyond. The first light of dawn was brightening the sky.
He moved to stand behind her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. Her tension was palpable. Gently he began to massage the taut muscles.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.
“You’re thinking about Peggy Hackett, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Now that Enright is dead, I can’t stop thinking about Peggy Hackett, Gloria Maitland, Daisy Jennings, and that other woman, Betty Scott, who died in Seattle nearly a year ago. I know I’m missing some crucial detail but I have no idea what it could be.”